


Run the Gauntlet

by the_tragedist



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Everyone is Badass, Fix-It, Multi, Newt (Maze Runner) Lives, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-The Death Cure, because otherwise none of this would work, bullshit medical procedures abound, but really that's the least dangerous thing done in this fic and they could use a stiff drink, cranks everywhere, it's angsty but theres humor, lots of cranks, more relevant tags to come later, newt is alive and takes no shit, the last city is such a shit show and newt has to deal with it, there's sadness in paradise, underage drinking in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_tragedist/pseuds/the_tragedist
Summary: Two days after the fall of the Last City, Newt awakens beneath a pile of rubber: bruised, battered, but alive. It comes as a bitter irony, he's regained himself but the Gladers are long gone. With no hope of rescue he must find away to survive in the crank-infested ruins and make it back to his friends.





	1. a5 status: unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Finally this fic is up! It wouldn't be possible without my two awesome betas, who are the absolute best (and put up with my hellish grammar). Check them out at karkitty.tumblr.com and dont-you-want-me-baby.tumblr.com! 
> 
> Also this fic is in the movie!verse. More relevant tags will be added later. 
> 
> Feel free to contact me on Tumblr at runthemaze.tumblr.com!

Crashing metal awakens him. Gasping, his eyes fly open but are met with burning dust and more darkness. Coughing, he twists his head to the side, trying to keep some of the debris littering the air from his eyes. Rough concrete bites into his cheek, the edge jagged.  _ Where the hell is he? _ Eyes still shut, he tries to sit up but only manages to move upwards about a foot before being met by a hard, unyielding surface. 

Panic sets in, clutching at his chest and forcing his throat closed with fear. The Glade flashes through his mind, the claustrophobic terror he felt at their confinement. Forcing himself to inhale and exhale, he tries to still his shaking. After a few minutes of controlled breaths, he collects his splintered thoughts. 

Opening his eyes and blinking away the burning, he focuses on determining where he is. Tentatively, he reaches out, finding that he’s stuck in a hard space small enough that he can lie down with his legs pulled up or perhaps crouch carefully. Underneath him is a bed of dirt and concrete rubble, which forms most of his cage. Only a frame of metal keeps the debris from crushing him. The metal feels solid, which comes as a small relief: he’s safe, for now at least. 

Slowly, his eyes adjust and he realizes that he isn’t in complete darkness. Over his left shoulder is a thin seam of white light. 

Moving with caution, so as not to disturb the structure and cause his space to collapse, he turns onto his stomach, allowing him to look at the crack more closely. 

It’s then that he realizes that it wasn’t the darkness which kept him from noticing the break earlier: he can’t see out of his left eye. His entire skull throbs with a grating pain, but his eye feels no worse than anywhere else. Gently, he touches his eyelid, but finds no wound.

Shaking himself, he pulls his focus back to the crack: half-blind or not, he had to get out of here before the structure gave way. 

The rubble surrounding the crack was small enough that he might be able to push it away. Carefully, he pushes outward and some of the concrete falls away, letting in a flash of bright morning light. The sound of falling concrete echoes through and he freezes. After waiting a minute he continues to pick away at the debris. 

It’s slow and tedious work. Every few minutes there’s another rumble of material falling, causing him to pause, certain that in mere moments the end will arrive. His nails chip and break as he digs at the stones. 

Surely though, the gap widens until he’s able to fit his arm through. After an hour of grueling digging he carves out a space large enough for his torso to fit through. His hands ache, fingernails torn to shreds as he leans back, taking a moment to rest.

The cool white light pours in along with an eerie unbroken stillness. It’s only now that it occurs to him what might be waiting outside might be more dangerous than his hiding place. Still, he can’t stay here. He’s only got so long before someone finds him or the metal gives way.  

Concrete crumbles as he crawls out of the hole, scraping his shoulders and legs. He fits one leg out before the debris underneath his hands breaks apart sending him rolling forward and falling out of the hole. He rolls over a pile of sharp metal and cement before coming to stop on the hard ground. 

He coughs, spitting dirt and dust. His whole body aches as though he’s been trampled or hit by a truck. After taking a moment he pushes himself to his feet, wavering. 

The sight of the leveled city in the dawn light takes his breath away. Columns of smoke rise from the heaps of rubble all around. A few fires remain burning, but most have reduced their fuel to black smudges on the ground. The Scorch looked more welcoming than the scene before him: at least there was the movement of the wind over the sand rather than the dead stillness of the Last City’s remains. 

Desperately he tries to collect his memories, but they’re fractured. His last clear memory is the three of them: Minho, Thomas, and himself leaping from the building as Janson arrived. After that, it’s a sea of pain, red-orange fire, and shouting voices. Dimly he recalls Thomas’s face clouded in fear. What had he done? 

He pushes up what’s left of his tattered sleeve. The black lines of the flare have disappeared, replaced with a blue-grey. It’s as though the virus was gone, leaving only faint scars in its wake. His head is clearer than it’s been in months despite the violent pounding in it. He’s himself again. 

But they were gone. 

The urge to laugh strikes him suddenly. Not happy laughter, but the sick kind when everything’s become tragically ironic. He’s himself again, but they’re gone. Cured, but it’s too late. He allows himself a moment of hysteria, doubled over to keep from suffocating. 

A crash in the distance rouses him. He shakes his head: he had no proof they were dead. WCKD’s headquarters was in ruins around him. They might have managed to destroy it, hell, they might have long left the city. He heard the talks of the island, Paradise. The name had a cloying sweetness, sounding like another false promise at the time. But with WCKD gone maybe, they had reached it. He has to believe they made it. At least until he sees proof they didn’t. 

He’s standing out in the open, he realizes, unarmed, practically asking to be attacked. Walking as quietly as possible he rushes to a still-standing corner of a nearby building, ducking inside. Crouching down with his back to the wall he breathes deeply, leg throbbing. 

_ Prioritize _ , he tries to concentrate on the immediate. He pats himself down, but aside from a few shallow gashes, he has no injuries in need of immediate attention.  He needs water and some sort of weapon. Then to figure out where he was. After that it was a matter of travelling west toward ‘Paradise.’ It’s a shit plan at best, but it’s all he’s got. 

Across the room lies a body was half hidden by the building’s rubble. Clutched in the man’s hand is a handgun. The sight of it sends his mind flashing back to memories of fire and screaming. Vaguely he recalls the feeling of his gun being ripped from his hand and thrown by...Thomas? 

Shaking his head, he stands. There will be time to remember later. He walks to the man, leg aching, and pries the gun from his hand. Half-wedged beneath his leg is a short knife, which he takes as well. 

“Thanks, mate,” he mutters, vague sympathy for the dead arising. 

He turns his back to the rising sun. His shadow stretches out on the ground, a compass westward. The expanse of the last city stretches out before him. He doesn’t know how far it is, or if anyone is waiting for him. But if there was a chance he had to take it. 

“I’m coming for you,” Newt says, as though the wind might carry the words to his friends, wherever they are. “Wait for me. Please.”  

  
  



	2. a5 status: alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He glances down at the gun he holds. It isn’t all that different than the one he’d at his side for months while they hunted down Minho. He checks the magazine: half full. Six shots and an unknown amount of Cranks around every corner. Fucking brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The positive response this fic has gotten is so amazing, thank you guys. Also, thank you to my two amazing betas @karkitty and @dont-you-want-me-baby on Tumblr, I'm so thankful these two put up with my grammatically incoherent ramblings.

The sun beats down on his shoulders and bounces brightly off of the twisted metal ruins. It feels wrong to walk so harshly in the open, but the fires have left the buildings so unstable he doesn’t dare to walk close, lest one gives way. 

He reaches a pool, the once clear water now clouded with dust. Crouching he cups his hand and tastes the water: it’s gritty but unchlorinated. The water wakes him up, and he drinks to his fill before soaking his hair and shirt. 

Just before he’s about to depart reluctantly from the pool he catches sight of himself in the brown water. The spidering black veins have faded from his face, replaced by grey lines to match his arm. His left eye has turned grey and cloudy, as though with a cataract. The Flare was gone, he could feel it, but it had left its mark. He shudders, memories of what he might have done flashing before his eyes. 

He kicks a pebble into the pool and shatters his reflection. 

For a long while, he doesn’t see a sign of life. There are bodies in the streets, trapped beneath buildings and burned from the fires. The smell is still bearable so he guesses it’s been less than a day since he passed out. 

Which means that maybe there’s a chance they haven’t left yet. It’s a desperate, childish hope, but he clings to it. 

A strained scream in the distance marks the presence of his greatest concern: Cranks. In the chaos, the city’s defenses must have fallen. No wonder there was no one around, it must have been a feeding frenzy. 

Instinctively he clutches his arm, as though the flare still lurked in his bloodstream. It’s strange to have the weight lifted, living with the fear for so long he’d grown used to it. 

However, without death hanging over his head, the threat of the Cranks is much more real. As quietly as possible he ventures forward, keeping an eye out for the slightest movement. He doesn’t know if he can fight off more than one Crank in his current state: at best his limp slowed him down, but all morning his leg had ached as though he’d refractured the old injury. 

As he rounds a street corner a horribly familiar snarling noise fills the air. Cranks. Feeding Cranks. He ducks into an alcove, heart beating rapidly. Glancing around the brick he catches sight of it: a crank huddled over a still body. It’s horrific to watch, but the gruesome meal isn’t what interests him: a flare gun lies at the body’s feet.   

A small part of himself screams that he’s asking for trouble, but a far larger part can’t think of anything but getting the flares. Unless he finds a working radio it might be his only way to send a signal.  

He glances down at the gun he holds. It isn’t all that different than the one he’d at his side for months. He checks the magazine: half full. Six shots and an unknown amount of Cranks around every corner. Fucking brilliant. 

As he takes careful aim all of the possibilities for failure run through his mind: too much kickback and he’ll sprain his wrist, miss and the Crank will be on him, if it screams it would alert others. Clearing his head he takes a deep breath and focuses. Exhale. Squeeze the trigger.  

The shot tears through the air, making his ears ring. Kickback reverberates through his shoulders, shooting pain down his leg. 

The bullet hits the Crank in the shoulder. Shit. 

It lets out a blood-curdling screech running at him. He pulls the knife from his belt, breaking into a run toward the Crank. It reaches him and he ducks, tripping it and sending it face first to the ground. Before it can get back up he plunges the knife into the back of its skull, looking away from the spurt of black blood. 

_ That could have been you _ , a voice in his head reminds him. It almost was you. 

He grimaces and picks up the flare gun. It’s got three flares in it. Five bullets. Three flares. 

A knife doesn’t run out. He reluctantly pulls it from the Crank’s head with a sick squelch and wipes its blood off in the dirt. He doesn’t know if he can get infected again, but he doesn’t want to risk it. 

Had there been other Cranks nearby they would be on top of him by now. He got lucky, but next time it might not be the case. Best to leave the area. 

The sun creeps lower in the sky as he walks through the city, passing by the fire-ravaged buildings. His ears catch the occasional Crank scream and metal groan, but there are no signs of any other survivors. His shadow stretches out behind him and he squints walking into the bright light. 

As evening nears he realizes grimly that he’ll have to find a place to sleep. Eventually, he finds a building which looks stable and has buildings surrounding it he could jump to in need of escape. Hopefully, it won’t come to that, but the months spent with the Right Arm had taught him that no possibility was to be ruled out. 

He steps inside the blackened entrance of the brick building cautiously, knife in hand. He decides that due to his lack of ammunition and the unlikelihood of finding more that the handgun is reserved for emergencies. Besides, he’s more comfortable with a blade after years in the Glade. 

The building appears to previously have been an office, with a half-collapsed concierge desk at the front. Mercifully, no Cranks appear as he creeps further into the room. After a few long moments holding his breath and straining his ear for any scrap of sound, he relaxes. 

The elevator stands half open next to the stairwell entrance. It’s tempting to peek inside for supplies, but he knows what likely awaits: more bodies. He’s seen enough for today. Enough for a lifetime really. 

He makes his way up the stairwell, boots ringing on the metal steps. Hopefully, the brick walls are enough to muffle the sound and keep company at bay. 

Recognizing the need for some sort of covering he pauses at the fourth floor. It feels dangerous to enter the body of the building more than necessary, but without so much as a jacket, he’ll freeze on the roof all night. The door groans loudly as he pushes it open. 

Rows of cubicles fill the floor. He stands stock still, listening. A Crank could easily hide here. Once a minute of utter stillness passes he deems it safe to move. 

He picks his way through the floor slowly, passing by row after row of plain grey chairs and desks. It reminds him of WCKD with its clinical sterility. Was this what the organization was like when Thomas worked there? When he and Teresa helped to construct their cage? The questions don’t hold any anger towards Thomas at least. Teresa is another matter, but in the moment, he finds it difficult to muster anger even at her. He’s more tired than angry. Burnt out from fighting the Flare for months and lying awake hoping that Minho would be alive when they reached him. He smiles at the memory of the moment of their reunion: Tommy, Minho, and himself. Even in the cloud of the Flare, that moment stood out crystalline in his mind. That might be his last happy memory of them. He might not find them, or worse -- he might find them dead. 

Shaking his head, he dispels the thoughts. Now isn’t the time for weeping over the past or nail-biting at the future. He would find them. 

Before he finds his friends he finds a jacket draped over the back of a chair. It’s large enough to use as a blanket made of a heavy wool-like material. Slinging it over his arm he retreats to the stairs and climbs to the rooftop. 

The roof’s vantage point lets him see the extent of the city’s destruction. Block after block is leveled. The skyscrapers which once blotted out the clouds lie in heaps of metal and shattered glass. The sun makes them glitter: a broken sea full of still burning fires and rising smoke. It’s almost beautiful. 

The building stands next to another slightly short one, the reason he chose it. He makes his bed beside the short wall, giving himself the most convenient path of escape. Draping the coat over himself he lays down, concrete digging into his cheek. 

The feeling of the hard ground pulls him back to the night in the Scorch before meeting the right arm. It’s strange to look back on times of war with warmth and fondness but he finds himself doing so. He recalls feeling alive then. Since he began running towards something instead of the sickening stagnation of the Glade. Since Tommy appeared. 

The memories make his chest ache and he pushes them down into a tight box. His fingers dig into his palm and he fights to ground himself in the moment, to keep himself from drowning in fear. 

He can’t give up. He’d said he would follow him anywhere. He intends to keep his promise.


	3. a5 status: prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four Cranks. Five bullets. One knife. 
> 
> Newt has a rough first morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay another chapter! thank you to my amazing betas @karkitty and @dont-you-want-me-baby, they are my grammatical heroes. also thanks for all the lovely comments, so glad to see people enjoying this fic! also to everyone who's wondering about how the hell he survived, I swear there's an actual explanation. just not in this chapter :)

Sharp sunlight awakens him. The cold wind rushes over his body and he hugs the woolen coat tighter around him for a brief moment. If he keeps his eyes shut he can imagine this is one of the night they spent in the Scorch: if he were to look around he’d see the other Gladers sleeping nearby and sand stretching out in every direction. He never thought he’d look back on that time with fondness, but it sounds like a dream compared to the world he opens his eyes to. 

Shaking off sleep he sits up. The morning’s already broken. He guesses it’s around six AM, but he has no watch except for the sun.  He stands and walks to the western edge of the roof. The weak dawn light paints the sketaltel ruins in drab grey. In a few places smoke still rises, blending with the grey sky. He still can’t see the ocean, no doubt it was lurking just beyond the decrepit skyline. 

Quickly, he pats down his pockets, checking that he has all of his meager possessions before pulling on his coat. If there are other survivors, he has no guarantee that they’ll be friendly. More likely than not they’ll be as desperate as Jorge and Brenda when he first encountered them, more foe than friend. Best to keep the flare gun from them.

He’s packed up, knife in hand, walking towards the door which leads down into the building when he hears the first Crank scream. It echoes up the staircase only a few floors below at best.

Without a second thought, he turns, running across the roof and leaping to the next building. His bad leg gives out as he lands, sending him rolling over the roof. The sharp metal scratches his face and hands. An air vent stops his tumbling, knocking the air out of his lungs. For a moment he can only gasp for breath, dazed by the impact. 

He pushes himself up, looking back to the other roof. Four Cranks emerge from below, spotting him immediately. Four hungry screams rip through the dawn air. 

Four Cranks. Five bullets. One knife.  

He takes off running. The Cranks’ ability to jump and move dexterously has long been an issue. Pain knifes up his leg, slowing him. There’s no way he’ll be able to outrun them, he found that out the first night in the Scorch. This time, however; no one would come back for him. The Crank’s snarls grow louder, and the tin roof reverberates with their combined landing. 

There’s another building on the other side of this one that he might be able to make the jump to. On it, he can see a door: an exit to the lower levels. It’s his best bet, his  _ only _ bet. 

He takes a flying leap and narrowly makes the next roof, shin slamming into the edge. Hissing he stands and rushes to the door. Mercifully, it is unlocked and he slips inside, running down the stairs. 

It’s only as he makes his way down flight after flight that he realizes Cranks might occupy this building as well. His breath comes in desperate pants and his head pounds from dehydration and a restless night’s sleep. He won't be able to keep this pace forever, leg already wavering underneath him.  

The building is eight stories. As he dashes down the steps he can hear the Cranks rattling after him. He doesn’t have a plan for when he reaches the street, but maybe he can pick them off one by one as they exit the building after him. 

Which will leave him with one bullet. Fuck. 

He hits the final set of stairs and catches sight of the light spilling in from the open door to the street. Without slowing he bursts out into the daylight, almost slipping on the fractured concrete beneath his feet. 

He runs, looking around for anywhere to hide before the Cranks appear, but there’s nowhere he would reach in time. The gun it is. 

He pulls it from his belt, flicking the safety off and turns to face the door he just exited. His heart pounds in his chest, despite having done this dozens of times in the Scorch. He waits with a white-knuckled hold on the grip. The first Crank appears. He pulls the trigger. 

The gun jams.  

“Shit.”

He drops it and breaks back into a dead sprint. 

His pause allowed the Cranks to catch up. He can hear them snarling steps behind him, arms outstretched. Just like the first night in the Scorch. Except for this time, his friends are gone. 

There’s no time to hide. He turns sharply down an alleyway, trying to shake them. His heart rattles in his chest painfully. 

Looking up his heart stops. A building’s collapsed across the street. There’s nowhere left to run. 

He keeps going, if only for a little more distance between himself and the Cranks. Though he’s cured now he might still be able to contract the Flare again. Even so, he fought it off for months last time, he’ll do it again if he has too. 

Reaching the rubble he turns, pulling his knife out. The Cranks round the corner, snarling echoing. 

Anger sparks in his chest. He’s made it this far, survived WCKD and the Flare only to be killed by bloody Cranks. He recalls feeling angry that night on the Plaza, the searing rage as he screamed at Thomas to end him. It’s different now. This is the first time he’s been angry because he wants to  _ live _ . It burns in his chest and makes him want to scream in frustration because,  _ damn it _ , he’s not ready to go yet. Not now and not ever, until he sees them again. 

They close in and he grips the knife, white knuckled, turning the blade outwards as Brenda taught him. Her voice sounds in his head, “Outwards: slash and slab, Blondie.” If this was it, he sure as hell is taking them with him. He raises the blade-- 

“Get down!” a voice screams.  

He does so without thinking, dropping to his knees. A burst of gunfire cracks through the air and the Cranks fall in a heap steps from him. Shaking he stands, mind trying to process what happened. 

“Watch out,” the same voice orders, followed by a rapid scraping noise. 

He looks over his shoulder to see a figure sliding down the face of the fallen skyscraper, boots scraping along the fractured glass. Their face is blotted out by the sun at their back making them nothing more that a silhouette. They reach the edge and jump down landing beside him. 

“Thanks for….” his words die in his throat as he looks into his savior’s face. 

Teresa smiles sadly, “Glad I got here in time.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that this was a nice twist. feel free to message at me about this on my Tumblr @runthemaze, I swear I don't bite


	4. a5 status: lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> However, as much as he hates her it doesn’t change the facts: he needs her. 
> 
> Newt and Teresa travel through the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! A special thanks to my best friend for help with this chapter!!!! As always, thank you to my betas as well!  
> Hope you guys enjoy!!

They don’t speak for a long moment. He’s acutely aware of the knife he holds in his hand, which she watches from the corner of her eye, and the gun she holds. 

Even though it’s only been days, she looks like a different person: her face is crusted with dried blood and painful looking burns, her once long hair is choppily hacked off at the ears, and her WCKD uniform is covered by a heavy coat. Her eyes are the same though, and meeting her gaze, he feels the old hate rise up. 

“Why the hell are you still here?” It comes out harsh, but he doesn’t care. 

She’s the reason he’s in this godforsaken city in the first place. The reason that Minho was taken and tortured. Whether she saved his life or not it was still  _ her _ . 

“Dumb luck,” she says fiddling with the strap on her gun. “I hit water instead of the ground when--” 

“No,” he cuts her off. “I mean  _ here _ . As in, the City. Figured you’d be in Paradise.”  

“Missed the Berg,” she says quietly, not looking him in the eye. 

Which means they made it: Thomas, Minho, Fry, and the others, they got out of here. A weight lifts off his shoulders: he can stop looking for their bodies at every corner. They’re out there, somewhere safe.

“What about you?” her voice breaks through his thoughts. 

“What?” 

“I thought you would be gone,” she says. “With them.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” he snarls. 

She shakes her head, “Not disappointed.” 

It’s strange to speak to her without Thomas to keep him in check. He can feel all of the resentment and venom, which had slowly come to inhabit the part of his heart once reserved for her among the other Gladers, well up. Without him there to stop him, there’s nothing to keep back the flood of bitterness at what WCKD had done, at what  _ she _ had done. 

“Do you know where they’ve gone?” he asks. 

“An island. West,” she says. “That’s all I know.” 

Nothing more than him then. He turns away from her, looking past the felled Cranks. 

“We’re more likely to survive if we work together,” she says, carefully. 

He doesn’t answer. She’s right. She’s got a functioning gun and a far more thorough knowledge of the city. He needs her and he hates himself for it because everything in his instincts says to leave her-- to leave her like she had deserted them. 

“It’s what he’d want,” she says quietly. “You know that.” 

He moves without thinking, chest burning as though the Flare still coursed through his veins.“Don’t, don't you  _ dare _ try and use him to save your skin.” 

Her eyes widen and she steps back. She’s afraid of him, he realizes. It’s satisfying in a sick sort of way. Her grip on the gun tightens and in the back of his mind he wonders if she would kill him. 

However, as much as he hates her it doesn’t change the facts on paper: he needs her. 

“How much ammo do you have?” he snaps, breaking the tension between them. 

She smiles tentatively, understanding. “Couple more rounds.”  

“Are you heading West?” he grits out, though he knows the answer. 

“Yes,” she answers. “There’s a marina.” 

“It’s still early,” he says. “We can make decent time if we go now.” 

The ‘we’ tastes sour in his mouth.

They walk through the streets without speaking. Teresa mercifully seems to understand the nature of their truce: one of silence and mutual suspicion.

The peace is broken by the sound of his stomach rumbling loudly. It’s only then he notices the lightness in his head. How long has it been since he last ate? Days? 

“Here,” she stops, reaching into her pocket and fishing out a half eaten candy bar. “It’s all I’ve found so far.” 

He hesitates, wanting to refuse, but hunger wins out. He takes two bites of the bar. The half melted chocolate sticks to the roof of his mouth, cloyingly sweet and too rich. He passes the remainder of it back to her. 

“How far are we from the Marina?” he asks after a few minutes of walking. 

She glances around, as though looking for any landmark to tether them. 

“A ways,” she says. “But we’re headed in the right direction. We should make it by the end of the day.”  

She stops, in her tracks briefly. 

“Cranks?” he asks hand, tightening his knife. 

She shakes her head and points to a body lying in the street. It’s about a hundred feet from them, but he can clearly make out the dark veins winding up its arms. 

“Give me your knife,” she says holding out her hand. 

“Why?” he doesn’t trust her enough to hand off the only weapon he’s got. 

Her gaze is hard. “Because I don’t know when we’ll find more bullets but I want to make sure they don’t get up again.”  

He passes her the knife. 

Teresa walks to the body, cautiously leaning over it. Without flinching, she drives the blade through its skull, before pulling it back out. She wipes the blade off on her pants and makes her way back to him. She offers him the blade, handle out, without speaking. 

He takes it and they continue on. Every few minutes or so she holds out her hand and he passes the blade so that she can perform the same procedure. They don’t speak of it, and he quietly admits that he’s grateful she’s volunteered to do the grim duty. 

Trying to cross the city is maddening: at every turn, they’re met with fallen buildings and caved in streets. Over and over they turn back for fear of collapse should they continue on. He recalls the early days mapping the Maze, back when he ran alongside Minho, sharing in his constant frustration at the seemingly every changing routes. The parallels are striking: the heat, the fear, the confusion. Only this time it’s a girl at his side, a knife in his hand, and no Glade to return to. 

The sun is in their eyes, sinking closer and closer to the horizon when they reach the marina. He hears it first, the sound of softly lapping water.  The pair emerges from the decimated city, out into a flat plaza leading to a wide pier. 

The dark blue-green water stretches out off into the distance. It takes his breath away, as the Scorch did upon first encountering it. It’s so open and unlike anything he’s seen before.  

“It’s kind of beautiful,” Teresa says. 

His blood goes cold: there are no boats. Not a single sailable vessel remains in the port. It had been a foolish hope, but he’d thought maybe there’d at least be a schooner or, hell, even a rowboat. Instead, they’re greeted by the dark ocean and no options. 

Teresa walks past him, to the edge of the plaza, before sitting down facing the water. He follows after her. In silence they watch the sun creep lower and lower, staining the dark water in refracting red light. 

“You sure they went that way?” he asks. 

She nods. “Certain.” 

He picks at the cracked cement beneath them. “How are we going to get there?” 

   She doesn’t answer his question. “We need to find somewhere to stay tonight. ” 

He wants to scream in frustration, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as she pulls the remainder of the candy bar from her pocket and takes a bite before offering the last of it to him. 

He stares at it for a long moment, before nodding and taking it. There’s so little left that doesn’t bother attempting to divide it further. He knows that the little sustenance will do him good, but what he really wants is water: they’d stopped at every fountain they’d seen, but most were chlorinated or too contaminated to drink. The long hike in the sun had left them both dehydrated. They’ll need water soon. His leg aches at the thought of another day of walking, as though the old breaks had shattered again. 

Doing his best not to sway he stands, Teresa following suit. 

“Let’s get going,” he says. “Before the sun sets on us.” 

She takes off walking. He casts a last longing glance over his shoulder at the lapping waves before turning his back to the sun and following after her into the falling dark.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rant about RtG and TMR with me on tumblr @runthemaze!


	5. a2 status: awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paradise is less like paradise than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter and a new POV! Thanks to my betas: @karkitty and @dont-you-want-me-baby for the help with this! Additional thanks to my dear best friend for her assistance as well!!

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding. Pushing himself up he gasps, only to fall back at the stabbing pain in his side. 

“Thomas,” a familiar voice says, filled with concern. “Thomas, it’s okay.” 

Managing to get a breath of air into his lungs he turns his head to the left to see Sonya walking to his cot. She picks up a tin cup of water from a crate fashioned as a bedside table. She sits in a metal folding chair and slides an arm under his back helping to support him as he takes a small sip of the lukewarm water. 

“What’s happening?” he rasps, voice hoarse with dissues. “Where are we?” 

She gives him a weary smile. “We made it. You’ve been out for a few days.” 

“We….” he trails off as the memories come rushing back to him. 

He can feel the burning fire and Teresa’s face flashes in his mind, her last smile, her scream. The scream melts into a deeper one, filled with anger. Newt. He recalls the weight of the knife 

Fingers snapping in front of his face bring him back. “Thomas. Hey, stay with me.” 

Trying to slow his breathing he focuses on her face, desperately trying to hold back the wave of panic, fear, and  _ pain _ that crashes over him. They were both gone. Newt. Teresa. He’d failed them.  

Hands latch on to his, squeezing.

“ _ Thomas _ ,” Sonya says forcefully. “Thomas, I need you to breathe. With me, come on.” 

Her eyes bore into his and he could swear he's seen the expression in them before, painted in brown instead of blue. 

For a few long moments they sit in silence as he struggles to match his breathing to hers. Eventually the tightness in his chest eases and she releases his hands, sitting back. 

“Lie down,” she orders. 

He follows her directions without thinking, mind unable to stitch thoughts together coherently. 

Gently, she checks the bandages on his wound to assure he hasn't ripped the near stitching.  

“Where is everyone?” he asks. 

“Outside,” she answers. 

“I need to see them,” he says. 

Her lips purse in hesitation but she nods. “If you go  _ very _ slowly you should be able to walk. Still, back in bed in half an hour.” 

She slips her arm underneath his shoulders again and helps him stand. Pain shoots through his side but it's bearable. He grits his teeth and walks slowly from the hut, pushing aside the cloth door. 

Sunlight hits his face, blinding him. Noise bombards him on all sides: clanking hammers, snapping branches, laughter and conversation. With his eyes shut he could be in the Glade. Except he couldn’t be, because there’s a voice missing. 

“Thomas!” another familiar voice exclaims. 

He opens his eyes to see Minho walking towards him, eyes full of concern. He looks healthy, worlds better than the shaking figure they’d found in WCKD’s facility. His clothes hang on his frame more loosely, but his eyes have returned to their usual clarity.  

“Minho….” he says, unsure of how to finish the sentence. 

The other shakes his head, and pulls Thomas into a tight hug. Thomas wants to say something, to try and put a name to the grief he can feel radiating from both of them, but he knows if he opens his mouth only a sob will escape. 

“Later,” Minho says softly, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Alright,” he manages, breaking the embrace. 

“Thomas!” another voice exclaims and he turns to see Brenda approaching. 

She too looks better than when he last saw her, though his memories blur together, making her more into a vague outline than a figure in his mind. She gives him a weary smile, stopping just short of him. 

“Glad to see you decided to stop being such a baby and join the rest of us,” she says, punching his shoulder. 

It’s strained and he can hear the desperate attempt at normality in her tone. He appreciates it and plasters something he hopes is close to a smile on his face. 

“This all got sorted,” he says, nodding to the camp around them.

About a dozen small huts are built in a makeshift village of driftwood and scrap material. Everywhere immunes are hammering and assembling walls and roofs. Smoke drifts up from a large central fire near which stands the familiar figure of Frypan. 

“It’s been tough,” she says, pride slipping into her voice. “But Minho here whipped everyone into shape.” 

Minho smiles back at Brenda, but he can see the exhaustion in it. “Gally’s been teaching everyone how to build huts like we did… like we did in the Glade.” 

“Looks great,” he says, and he means it even if the enthusiasm is faked. 

The fact that they had made it here against all odds is impossible. For the first time, they have a chance at a future without the threat of WCKD. 

Frypan sees him then and begins to rush over, so Thomas smiles wider and tries to tell himself this is a future he wants.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short one this time, but the next one is longer!! also thank you to all of the lovely comments they really make my day and I'm so glad other people are having as much fun with this as I am!!


	6. a5 status: injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it?”
> 
> “Alcohol,” She glances at the label. “Gin, specifically.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another, longer chapter!! Thanks to my betas @karkitty and @don't-you-want-me-baby, as well as my dear best friend.

A gnawing hunger wakes him. He starts, before recalling the previous day’s events. His eyes meet Teresa’s, who sits back to the wall with the gun clenched in her hand. 

“Good, you’re up,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “We need to get going.” 

“Where?” he rasps, sitting up. 

She holds out a hand to him, which he ignores, standing on his own. 

“We need water and food,” she says, letting her hand fall to her side. “More ammunition wouldn’t hurt too.” 

Every muscle in his body aches after another night on a hard floor. Rolling his shoulders, he slips into the corner and peaks through the window. 

The sun is high in the sky, putting the time around nine. Nothing moves in the narrow alleyway below except for dust blowing in the wind. 

He feels like shit: the aching in his head remains, now accompanied by a painful gnawing in his stomach. It’s a sensation that’s unwelcome, but familiar. 

Patting down his pockets he check’s that he still has his knife. Teresa watches him from beside the door. He comes  to stand beside her. She presses her ear to the metal and does the same before shaking her head. 

“I can’t hear anything, but I don’t want to risk it,” she says. “We’ve got twelve bullets left.” 

He nods at the window. “We can take the fire escape.”

"Good," she says, shouldering the gun for the time being.

“Do you have any idea where we can find supplies?” he asks, going to the window and pushing it up to let in the warm wind. 

“We’ll have to check buildings,” she says, watching as he clambers through. 

“But to do that we’re going to need more weapons,” he says, finishing her thought. 

“Exactly,” she says. “We’ll check the bodies.” 

He swallows hard, “Right.” 

The fire escape groans as they make their way down its steps, but holds steady. They pause before the last ladder drop to the street. The only sound is that of the wind and soft metallic creaks. Nothing moves in the stillness of the alley. 

He follows Teresa as she crouches and climbs down the ladder. 

They walk to the end of the alley in silence, keeping close to the wall. It’s a dead end behind them and he’s acutely aware that they’d both have trouble jumping to pull down the retracting ladder again if they needed to escape. He’ll keep an eye out for rope as well. 

Back pressed to the wall, Teresa peeks out around the edge of the building and into the street. 

“It’s clear,” she says after a moment of looking. 

Eyes scanning for any sign of movement, they head out into the streets. Their boots crunch loudly on the broken stone, making him wince with every step. His steps are made only louder by his aching leg. The danger feels more real today: a small part of him had held onto the hope that his friends would be miraculously waiting at the water. Now he has to face the reality  that for the time being, this godforsaken city is home

It takes a block before they come across a body, or rather, a cluster of them piled as though fleeing. Teresa holds out her hand for the knife, but he ignores it and walks past her. He grabs the first body--a man with cropped hair--and hauls him away from the group.  Teresa watches him plunge the blade into the body’s skull before pulling another off the pile. She takes a large piece of concrete from a nearby pile of rubble and drops it on its head with a sickening crunch. Without hesitation she pats down the boy’s pockets, pulling off his gloves and boots. 

“Will these fit you?” she asks, holding up a black boot. “Too big for me.” 

He glances down at his own ravaged shoes before taking it. “I think so.”  

Trying not to think too much about the action he pulls off his shoes and replaces them with the thick brown boots. They do fit and they’re in far better condition than what he wore. It’s only after they’re on his feet that he notices the blood crusting the sides.  

Teresa moves on, giving the same treatment to another body, trading her threadbare jacket for its brown leather one. Taking a steadying breath he dives in. They work through the pile, in grim silence, broken only by wet thuds and scraping. In the end they end up with another knife, a few pairs of socks, and a backpack for each of them. 

“Is this your plan?” he asks her, when they stand back looking at the ransacked dead. 

She rests her gun on her shoulder. They hadn’t found any more ammunition. “Do you have a better one?” 

His stomach rumbles again, accompanied by a sharp pang. 

“We should find food,” she says, wiping off her hands on her pants. “There must be a store around here somewhere.” 

After an hour of walking, mostly consumed when they reach yet another dead end too unstable to scale, they manage to find the a store. Rather, it is what’s left of a store, the front of the building half collapsed, once expansive windows smashed in leaving wide dark holes staring back at them. The darkness is complete enough that they’re only able to make out shelves a few feet into the store before the details melt into black. Anything could be back there. 

They pause, waiting for any sound of movement. There’s nothing except for their mutual-baited breaths and rapidly beating hearts. 

They’re about to move when a low scuffing sound drifts out from within. They both freeze, and the sound continues. 

“Let’s go,” Teresa says, shouldering the gun and pulling her newly found knife from her belt. 

He grabs her arm, stopping her, “For all we know there’s ten Cranks in there.” 

“I hear one, maybe two,” she says, pulling herself from his grasp. “We don’t know how long it’ll be before we find somewhere else to get food from. I’m not willing to risk that.” 

She looks at him coldly and he knows that she’s going in whether he goes or not.  _ But she knows she’s immune _ , a voice in his head reminds him,  _ and you have no idea if you are still at risk. _

“Are you coming or not?” she asks, jerking her head towards the entrance. 

It’s probably just one or two. They can take them. 

“Let’s just get it over with,” he snaps, gritting his teeth. 

They approach the building, boots crunching on the shattered glass beneath them. The door has been ripped from its frame and they step inside the building. Teresa goes first, knife clenched hard in her hand. Her eyes scan the room, looking for any trace of movement. Newt follows after, sticking close to her back. 

Barely any light penetrates the darkness within the store, aisles stretching back into black. The floor is littered with debris and goods fallen from their shelves. 

For a minute they stand still, just within the threshold. He’d hoped the Crank would appear immediately so that they could deal with it and move on. 

Teresa juts her chin towards the back and they approach slowly. After about five tentative steps she stops and points down. He follows her arm to see cans on the floor. Food. 

He nods and crouches. As quietly and quickly as possible he stuffs as many unopened cans, bottles, and boxes as he can into his bag. Quickly he fills it and begins to zip the bag. The shuffling noise from earlier is even louder. He stands, shifting to face the door. 

A can falls from his bag, clattering across the chipped floor. The sounds rings through the shell of the store.  

“Shit,” Teresa breathes. 

A shrill scream fills the store and from around the end of the aisle a Crank appears. It pauses, taking them both in, before letting out another guttural cry and lunging forward. 

Teresa’s moving before he can even react, grabbing a shelf to their left and pulling it forward so it topples onto the Crank. It lets out another scream as the heavy metal pins it to the floor. 

From the other side of the store another scream rises.  

“There’s more,” he says. 

A gunshot cracks through the air and the Crank at her feet goes still. The shelf of the other side of the aisle topples over towards them.  

“Watch out!” she shouts. 

They dive in opposite directions. He slams into the tile, scratching his hands on the shattered flooring. He rolls over onto his back just as a Crank leaps on him. Teeth embed themselves in his arm, making him cry out in pain. Desperately he kicks at it’s torso, managing to dislodge its bite. He pulls out his knife as it lunges again, plunging the blade upwards through it’s open jaw. It falls, lifeless on top of him, contaminated blood spilling over his face and neck. He coughs forcing it off of him and wiping the fluid from his eyes. 

“Newt,” Teresa crouches at his side. “Are you alright?”

Pain radiates from his arm where blood wells around the Crank’s bite. Dimly, he realizes it’s nearly symmetrical to the Flare scar on his other arm. 

“Come on,” she grabs the back of his jacket, yanking him to his feet. “Before more of them come.” 

They stumble back into the light and down the street. Teresa keeps her eyes up, alert. Gone is the grim confidence of earlier, replaced by a radiating tension. He keeps his hand pressed to his arm, trying to stem the blood rapidly soaking through his shirt and jacket sleeves. He tries not to think about what the bite on his arm and the blood in his eyes mean: infection. He fought off the flare for months before but he’s not sure he can do it again. 

Eventually they enter an area he recognizes and approach the building where they stayed the night. He’s glad to see the worn brick and half burned entrance.  _ Home sweet home _ . 

They don’t speak as they climb the stairs and enter their room, barely making eye contact until the door is latched and they sit across from one another next to the window, bag of supplies between them. 

Teresa breaks the silence. “We need to take care of your arm.” 

He nods numbly and shoulders off his jacket. His thin shirt sleeve is soaked through with dark red.  _ At least it isn’t black. Yet.  _ He yanks the flimsy top over his head and gets a clear look at his bite for the first time: it’s surprisingly neat, the flesh not torn too severely.

“Good,” she says, as though reading his thoughts. “Could be much worse.” 

She takes his backpack and upends it, spilling the contents over the floor. Nothing appears of use till she pulls a squat bottle of amber liquid from the base of the pile. Quickly, she cracks the seal and sniffs the contents, nose wrinkling. 

“What is it?” 

“Alcohol,” She glances at the label. “Gin, specifically.” 

She recaps it and retrieves his discarded shirt. Carefully, she wipes the welling blood away from the bites, examining them. 

“These aren’t too deep either,” she tells him. “So long as it doesn’t get infected you should be alright.” 

He snorts, “It? So long as  _ I _ don’t get bloody infected more like.” 

She looks up at him, brows knitting. “You won’t get infected. No one gets the Flare twice. That’s the only good thing about the virus.” 

An invisible weight lifts from his shoulders and for the first time since the store he breathes properly. He is immune. Finally. 

She stands and offers him a hand up. He refuses, standing on his own. She might have saved his life, but that didn’ t mean he forgave her. She doesn't comment on his refusal, pushing the bottle of Gin into his hands. 

“I’d suggest you take a sip,” she says, watching as he eyes it with suspicion. 

He follows her suggestion, wincing as the alcohol burns his mouth and throat. Swallowing, he coughs, burning sensation unfolding in his empty stomach.  

“Come here,” she says, taking back the bottle pushing up the window. 

Still grimacing at the Gin he stands beside her. She takes his arm and holds it out in the open air. 

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Do you want another sip before I do this?” she asks raising the bottle.

“Why?” He tries to keep the alarm from his voice. “What are you doing?” 

She rolls her eyes, “I’m cleaning your wound. And ‘why’ because this is going to hurt like a bitch.” 

Her expression is serious. He takes another drink.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter. Thanks for all the lovely comments, feel free to message me/ask questions via my Tumblr @runthemaze.


	7. a5 status: cured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How am I alive, Teresa?” he asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

It does indeed hurt like a bitch. After a few rinses with the gin the pain in his arm shifts from a screaming fire to a numb burning sensation. Teresa deems it satisfactory and helps him to wrap it up tight with the strips from the shirt. 

“We’ll keep it clean,” she says, sitting back and nodding at the neatly fastened bandage. “And you should be alright.” 

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” he says, gin loosening his tongue enough to actively begin a conversation with her. 

She shakes her head, “I’m an engineer.” 

“Then what were you doing,” he says, unable to speak the name without it coming out as a curse, “with WCKD?” 

“Biochemical engineer, specifically,” she answers, not looking at him. “We should take inventory.” 

He lets the subject drop, knowing that it will only bring up animosity. They lay out their loot on the dusty floor, sunlight painting the items in faded yellow. There’s a half dozen cans of preserved fruits and vegetables, twelve bottles of water, the gin, a tin of nuts, four packages of crackers, and two tins of breath mints. 

“We did pretty well,” she says. 

He nods his agreement, taking a bottle of the water and cracking the seal on it. Forcing himself to drink slowly he takes a sip, the lukewarm liquid merciful after the searing alcohol. He takes a four sips before recapping the bottle and setting it aside. Drinking all of it at once will only make him sick. 

They look over the food again and settle on eating a few of the crackers and opening a can of beans. Teresa, using to the end of the knife to pry open the can lid, reminds him of the supplies coming up in the box during his first nights with Alby. He’d watched back then, too numb to do anything but eat the food given to him and go where he was told. He feels similar now: head foggy with only the throbbing in his arm keeping him tethered to reality. It’s not like the Flare, something concrete to fight, but rather an overbearing weariness pulling him down. 

A loud creaking startles him awake. He sits up sharply, head thwacking against the wall from where he’d slumped forward, falling asleep legs crossed.  His hand flies to the nearest possible weapon, the goddamn gin bottle as he looks around the room for the source of the noise. He’s alone. Nothing’s out of place, except for Teresa, who’s disappeared, though the room has darkened except for shafts of orange sunset spilling through the window. 

“I’m out here,” Teresa says, voice low.  

A dry breeze rushes through the stale room from the half opened window. Scooping up his water bottle he makes his way to the sill and forces it fully open. His arm throbs as he puts weight on it climbing through the window, but it’s nothing compared to the burn of the virus. 

Teresa sits at the top of the firecape, legs dangling over the edge. The gun rests at her side, metal catching the dying sunlight. The breeze ruffles her choppy brown hair and she attempts to tuck it behind her ears only to have the strands flurry around her face again moments later. 

“How’s the arm?” she asks, as he sits beside her. 

The metal slats dig into the back of his legs and he hooks his arms through the railing. “Alright. Could be worse.”

She nods and takes a sip from her water bottle. “You got  lucky.” 

“A couple times,” he says. 

Look looks at him, a brow arched. 

“How am I alive, Teresa?” he asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer. 

She hesitates. “Thomas was the cure.” 

“I know that,” he says, recalling her voice blaring over the loudspeakers. “You announced it to the entire city.” 

She chuckles sadly. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get him back to WCKD to make the serum.” 

A small voice reminds him that she really had tried to save him in the end. A louder voice screams that it was her fault in the first place. 

“His blood is the cure,” she says again. “But it’s dangerous without the proper refinement. That’s why the serum is necessary.” 

“Dangerous?” 

She doesn't meet his eyes. “It kills off the virus, but without refinement there’s nothing to aid the body in healing or gradual reduction of the Flare.” 

“What’s the problem with that?” he asks. “The faster you kill it--” 

“That’s the problem,” she answers cutting him off. “ _ Kill _ , not  _ reverse _ . The damage that is done by the virus remains, it just stops the mental deterioration and physical breakdown.” 

He licks his lips, her words slowly sinking in. He’d never properly go back to how he was before: the scar on his arm would remain, the ashy skin and milky eye. The Flare has taken part of him and he’ll never get it back.

“You must’ve gotten some of his blood in your system: a cut or scratch is enough. You’re lucky you weren’t far Gone. After a certain point the cure...it just kills them.” 

She keeps her eyes trained on the streets below them, fingers twitching as though readying herself to run. 

“I’m sorry--” she begins. 

“Don’t,” he spits. “You’re not and both of us pretending will only make this harder.” 

She swallows hard, but nods, “Alright. No lying.” 

“No lying,” he repeats, sealing their promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and the short chapter! There's longer installments coming soon!  
> Once again, thanks to my betas @karkitty, @dont-you-want-me-baby, and my lovely BFF. Additionally thanks for all of the amazing comments, questions, and support this fic has gotten. Feel free to message me on tumblr @runthemaze!!


	8. a2 status: drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distantly, he can hear the sounds of movement, the rest of camp already coming alive. A soft rhythmic pattering noise permeates the hut: rain. He doesn’t know the last time he felt rain: the Glade, perhaps.

A day slips by and Thomas remembers little of it. Vaguely, he recalls wandering through camp, passed between embraces and kind words. At some point Sonya found him and forced him back to the medical hut to rest. He must’ve fallen asleep because now he lays on his back, watching the curtain door wave in the morning light. 

Harriet sits in the chair beside his bed, presumably having relieved Sonya of her watching duties at some point in the night. She’s fast asleep with her arms folded over her chest, frown etched into her face by trauma.  

Distantly, he can hear the sounds of movement, the rest of camp already coming alive. A soft rhythmic pattering noise permeates the hut: rain. He doesn’t know the last time he felt rain: the Glade, perhaps.

He swings his legs out of bed and stands, doing his best to move silently. The wound in his side protests sharply, but he ignores it, moving to the door. Drawing back the curtain, he’s met by sharp grey light and a spattering of water. 

Camp’s a flurry of motion as everyone tries to get equipment out of the rain. The sandy dirt beneath his feet is already changing to mud, his steps becoming slicker as the moments pass. 

“Thomas,” Minho says, coming to stop beside him. 

His holds a large wooden crate close to his chest. Beads of water run down his forehead and his shirt is soaked with rain. Despite the clouds, he offers him a bright smile, one Thomas tries to return. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, nodding at the frantic activity. 

“Storm’s coming,” he shifts the weight of the box to one arm, using the other to point at the massive swell of black clouds creeping towards them from out at sea. 

“Shit,” he breathes, looking at the heavy rainfall in the distance. 

“Yeah,” Minho agrees. “Come on, I’m supposed to bring this to the ship.” 

He nods towards the edge of camp, where the ocean stretches out into the distance, blue turned grey by the coming onslaught. The boat they borrowed to reach their island stands anchored just beyond the shallows. 

“Been a long time since we sat through a storm,” Minho says conversationally as they walk towards the ship. 

“We got hit by a few sand storms,” he says, recalling one of the days during the months they spent looking for Minho. “There was nowhere to go. We just laid there under the trucks for hours and after N—”

He cuts himself off as he registers the name he’s about to speak. It sticks in his throat, halting his story. He can remember the day vividly, still feel the press of the dirt underneath his cheek. The storm had crept up on them out in the open and with nowhere to go and not enough room for everyone to lay down in the back of the truck Newt and he had laid down beneath, thomas’s jacket pulled over both their heads. The sand had torn at his exposed hands as the wind howled around them, threatening to upend their makeshift hideout. After the imminent fear had worn off the sandstorm was mostly boring. 

That is until Newt had begun to write out words letter by letter on the palm of his hand:  little complaints about sand and the travel delay. Nothing particularly important or meaningful, but it changed the bitter sand storm from a waste of time to a welcome respite from the stress of their mission. At one point Newt had made him laugh out loud, the dust which filled the air beneath the jacket clogging his mouth and nose.  He’d been disappointed when the storm finally died down and they left their makeshift fortress. 

All of those moments were memories now, the only things Newt had left behind. 

“Hey,” Minho says sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. “Stay with me buddy.” 

He gasps sharply, having stopped breathing. Minho peers at him with a mixture of concern and understanding. 

“There’s nothing we can do,” he says. “But keep going.”  

He forces himself to nod, to process the words, to breathe in though it feels like drowning. 

They continue their walk to the ship. Minho rattles on about Gally and Brenda arguing over the hut construction. He tries to focus on his words, letting himself be pulled along in the tide of chatter.  

The rain increases, falling in sheets upon them by the time they reach the boat. His shirt and hair clings against his skin. A wind kicks up as they set the Crate in the hold, nearly knocking them over with the force of the gust. 

“Storm’s here!” Minho shouts, grinning wearily up at the onslaught of weather. 

They walk down the gangplank connecting the ship’s deck to the shore, struggling to stay upright as the wooden steps become treacherously wet. 

Another gush rushes through, tearing the tarp roof from the nearest building. He grabs the back fo Minho’s shirt pulling them both to the ground as it whips by overhead, the plastic sheet thrown out to sea. 

“We can’t stay out here,” Minho shouts over the roaring of the wind. “The buildings won’t hold.” 

“We have to get everyone inside,” he yells back, standing. 

He helps Minho up and together they run back into camp. His wound burns and he presses a hand to it, praying that the stitching will hold. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sonya shouts as they pass the medic hut. 

“Get everyone to the boat,” he pants, doubling over in pain. “The storm’s too strong.” 

“You can’t run with your wound,” she says, slipping an arm under his shoulders and helping him straighten up. 

He shakes his head. “We have to tell the others.” 

Her mouth twists in concern, but she nods. “No running.” 

“Don’t worry, Sonya,” Minho says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got him.” 

Her expression makes it clear that such information does little to assuage her fears but she nods again.  

Harriet appears behind her, pushing aside the curtain door, worry clear in her eyes. Her fingers curl protectively around Sonya’s wrist as the wind whips through again sending sand and grass skittering through. 

“We’ve got to get everyone to the boat,” Minho shouts to Harriet over the wind. 

“We’ll take the left side and you guys take right,” Harriet says, voice calm and authoritative despite the flash of fear in her eyes. 

Minho nods sharply, “Good luck.” 

He turns and takes off up the path towards the left portion of camp, where the kitchens and firepit are.

He glances back at the two girls and  catches a panicked look passing between them. He reaches out touching Sonya’s arm. 

“We’ll find Aris,” he says, low enough only they will hear it. “If he’s on our side we’ll let him know you’re okay.” 

“Come on!” Minho yells. 

He tries to smile reassuringly at Sonya and Harriet before turning and following after Minho. 

The mud clings to his boots, rain running into his eyes. Minho claps him on the shoulder as he reaches him, arm raised to block the rain from his eyes.  

“Minho!” A tall figure rushes toward them. 

It’s Gally, his cropped hair plastered against his forehead with water. He squints at them through the rain, expression hard. 

“The wind’s already taken out two huts,” he shouts. “No way we can hold out in the open.” 

“The ship,” Minho answers. “Get everyone there.” 

He waits for Gally to contradict the order, but his argument never comes. Instead, he nods. “Got it.” 

Before the surprise can register on his face Gally rushes away, disappearing into the grey of the storm. 

They make their way through the camp, slogging through water and dirt. Everyone they pass they direct towards the boat. After only minutes Thomas is  soaked to the bone and shaking with cold. Both his hands and feet have gone numb, throat raw from screaming directions over the vicious howling of the wind. It’s the first time since he awoke in paradise that he can breath, the veil of grief lifted by the immediacy of danger. He lets himself be pulled along in the fray, mind as unfeeling as his freezing lips.

After half an hour everyone has crowded on board, sopping wet and huddled next to one another for warmth. Minho heads to the deck to help Vince and Jorge secure the mooring of the ship in the storm. Someone has the presence of mind to distribute the blankets and after the panic wears off the immunes break into hushed groups of conversation. 

He finds himself wedged between Frypan and Brenda seated on one of the bunks, a plasticy acrylic blanket thrown over his legs. Across from them sit Harriet and Aris, Sonya doing rounds to check for hypothermia. Dimly, he notices Brenda has hold of both his hands, trying to rub warmth back into them. Her lips move and she glances over at him every few moments: she’s speaking to him. He doesn’t have the focus to answer. Instead, he lets his head drop onto Frypan’s shoulder and he quietly drifts away to the hum of her chatter and the rain beating against the porthole glass. 

He dreams of sandstorms and drowning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys, but finally another chapter in Paradise (RIP Thomas' stability and general hope). Thanks as always to everyone who reads this and puts up with my bullshit while writing this clusterfuck. Also additionally thanks to my lovely best friend who saved this from being a grammatical nightmare.


	9. a5 status: soaked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tempers run out as the rains come to the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooooooooooooo I'm back you shanks! thanks for putting up with the extended hiatus. this chapter is unbeta-ed and a little bit of a hot mess but I hope y'all enjoy anyway. thanks again!!!

Rain splatters against the window, refracting the grey city through droplets. He forces the window up a few inches and pushes his hand out, letting the water run over his fingers. It’s warm, warmer than the processed rain of the Glade. 

Teresa sits with her back to the wall, neatly laying out their haul of the day. They’d returned to the shop where they encountered the Cranks, thankfully not finding any more. They’d filled both their backpacks with supplies before the rain had started and they’d decided to return. Now the tins they’d eaten sit empty on the fire escape, slowly collecting water. 

“We've got enough to last us a week if we’re careful,” she says, breaking the silence. “There were other stores in that area: some of them might have supplies too.” 

He nods, pulling his hand inside and shutting the window. He wipes his hand across his face, attempting to clean away a little of the dust coating his skin. 

“We should do a sweep of this place,” she says, shifting to look at him over her shoulder. “And then barricade it. There’s enough material around.” 

“Or we could try to find a radio. Or a boat. Or a berg--” 

“There weren’t any boats in the marina. And we have no idea where they’ve gone. As for a radio, it’s a good thing to look for eventually, but right now we need to make this place safe,” she cuts in sharply. 

A cold feeling spreads out in his stomach, “What happened to the plan?” 

“The plan is to stay alive, Newt,” she counters. “And the best way to do that is to wait it out.” 

“Wait?” he asks, anger flaring. “For how long Teresa?” 

“As long as we have to!” she snaps. “There’s no rescue party. No one knows we’re here. They think we’re dead. All we can do is wait for an opportunity, and when one comes, we take it.” 

His lip curls in disgust, “That’s it then?” 

“There’s nothing else to be done,” her voice is calm, but her eyes are cold. 

He thinks of her expression in the WCKD headquarters speaking with him and Thomas: closed off and cold. He wonders if that’s what she looked like when she watched them go in the maze for the first time. 

“I’m sick of waiting!” he shouts, hands balling into fists.

“Newt—” 

“Do you have any idea what it was like? Three fucking years, Teresa, stuck in a cage that you and your friends built. Six months waiting for Minho because you stole him. Now you want me to keep waiting?” 

He stands and suddenly the room is too small and the rain too loud. Scooping his knife up off the floor he heads for the door, pulling it up. He has to go or else he’ll do something he regrets. Not for the first time he wonders if they’d come to this point sooner had Thomas not been there to mediate: if breaking into WCKD for her assistance would have culminated in Gally taking her fingers as promised and leaving the rest of her somewhere she wouldn’t be found. He feels sick knowing that he wouldn't have protested.

“Where are you going?” she says, a note of fear in her voice. 

Taking a steadying breath he keeps his hand in the door, “I’ll be back.” 

“Okay,” she says softly, the fight going out of her voice replaced by exhaustion.

He slides up the door and rolls out into the hall, shutting it behind him. It’s dark, the rain making the light from the windows at either end dim. Fear crawls up the back of his neck and for the first time, he considers the possibility that storming out might have been a bad idea. Though it was unlikely with their coming and going, the rest of the building might be crawling with Cranks. None had appeared in the time they’d been there, no doubt because the building had long been unoccupied by anyone; however, there was still the chance. He grips the handle of his knife more tightly, the textured plastic grating against his chapped palm and stalks down the hall to the stairs. 

He doesn't know where he’s going, but up seems better than down so he climbs the steps upwards. His footsteps ring loudly on the metal stairs, echoing downward. If any Cranks are in the building, they certainly hear him by now. 

The higher he climbs the harder it gets to breathe, vision beginning to blur after two floors. By the time he pushes open the door to the room he’s gasping for air, chest tight in panic. He staggers through the door, his bad leg catching on the frame. He’s tired, too tired to catch himself before he falls forward, hands and cheek slamming into the wet concrete. He coughs, grimy water flooding his mouth as he lays in a puddle. 

Pushing himself up, his leg buckles, no doubt from the strain of running up the stairs. He falls forwards again, only just managing to stay upright. The anger at Teresa explodes. He slams his fist into the concrete, tears flooding his face, though he’s not certain it isn’t just the rain. 

He allows himself a moment of desolation, the kind he felt during nights in the Glade after everyone else had gone to bed and the fires had died down to embers. The toxic hopelessness had found him in times like that, the kind that clogged his mouth and nose, choking him. It had returned when he’d first found he had the Flare and now, kneeling, drenched in the rain, it threatens. 

Swallowing, he squeezes his eyes shut and drags his slippery coat sleeve over them, mixing his tears into the rain. 

He knows she’s right: there’s nothing to do but perservere with fingers crossed that their friends will come or another opportunity will present itself. They waited six months to save Minho, six months of late nights straining their ears to try and glean any knowledge from their radio’s staticky transmissions. He’ll do it again--do it a thousand times--if he has to. He’ll wait lifetimes for them. 

Water dripping down the back of his jacket making him shudder he turns and heads back inside. 

Teresa is waiting when he returns. She’s standing by the door, as though about to leave herself. 

“Thank goodness,” she exhales harshly upon seeing him. “I was about to come after you.” 

She holds the gun in a white-knuckled grip, tension straining her shoulders. His anger long gone he feels a pang of guilt. Just as quickly as it comes he pushes it aside: nothing good would come from feeling guilty for how he might have concerned Teresa. 

“You’re right,” he bites back the urge to remain defiant, to let his anger seep in and pervade his mind as though teh Flare still lives there. “I didn’t see any Cranks on the way up to the roof, but if we’re sticking around, then we need to secure this place better.” 

She nods slowly before leaning the gun back against the wall and sitting down again. 

“You’re soaked,” she says, not looking at him as she straightens their meager cache of supplies. “Get changed before you catch a cold.” 

It’s a peace offering: a concession made by her concern. Swallowing the remainder of his bile towards her for the time being he shoulders off his wet coat and toes off his shoes. It’s of no use: the rain’s seeped through his shirt and pants, soaking into his skin. 

He spends the rest of the night trying to rub warmth back into his fingers and shivers himself to sleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a bit short, but the next few chapters will be longer and have more plot. stay tuned!!


	10. a1: ignited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old-tensions rise as Newt and Teresa explore what's left of the Last City.

A boot colliding with her shoulder, hard enough to hurt but not bruise wakes her. She blinks groggily for a moment as Newt’s scowling face comes into focus. Sunlight streams through the window into their small room which remains undisturbed from the night before. 

“What time is it?” she asks, mouth chalky. 

He turns leaning over the backpack they’d found a few days before: it’s unzipped and within sits a few water bottles along with the length of rope.  

“Sun just rose,” he says after considering. “Maybe six?” 

She pushes herself up, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. The chop had been necessary to free herself from a slab of concrete, but she felt a pang of loss whenever she caught her reflection in the window. It was silly, vain in fact, but it didn’t lessen the sting. 

“Where do you think we could find materials to reinforce this place?” he asks, breaking through her swirling thoughts. 

“I don’t know,” she answers, standing and rolling the sleep-induced stiffness from her shoulders. “We should head back to the district where we found that store— it didn’t look like it was hit too bad.” 

“Okay,” his tone remains guarded, but he zips the bag shut and meets her eye. “If that’s what you think is best.” 

It’s cold but civil. She’ll take it. 

It’s a stretch to call the crackers they shove in their mouths before creeping down the stairs of the building a breakfast, but at the very least it’s eaten in the morning. Her mouth tastes like chalk, the meal flour coating the back of her throat and making it impossible to swallow, not that she wants to in the first place. It’s the only food they’ve planned on eating till nightfall, best to make it last. 

Water would vastly improve the state of her mouth. She reaches for her water bottle, hand closing around the crinkling plastic neck that’s protruding from her back pocket. It’s light, too light. Empty. Shit. 

Newt watches her with wary eyes and she scowls and forces the empty container back into her trouser pocket. She waits for laughter. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, he stops, swinging his back around to hang over only one shoulder and unzips it, pulling out his own crumpled water bottle. 

“Here.” He holds it out to her. 

“Are you sure?” There isn’t much left, about a third of the bottle. 

He nods, frowning as though displeased with himself for his own kindness. As though he should know what being generous towards her brings him: betrayal. She doesn't blame him. She wouldn’t share with her either. Still, he gives the bottle an irritated shake in her direction. 

“Drink, Teresa.” There’s no room for discussion. 

She takes it and sips at the lukewarm, tinny water. It’s heavenly. 

“Thank you.” She passes it back to him. 

He takes a sip before replacing the plastic cap and tucking it back in his bag, beneath a length of rope and the shredded remains of his shirt, now cut to bandages. It’s the furthest from the sun, where it will remain the coolest. 

Dust floats through the city, kicked up by the stale wind. It isn’t long before her throat is parched from the heat and disuse, lips sealing together. 

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get to Paradise?” she asks, more as an excuse to break the oppressive silence than out of interest. 

The half-sneer shot in her directions makes it clear her question is unwelcome. 

She changes tactics. “What’s your favorite color?” 

She keeps an eye on Newt’s face out of the corner of her eye. After a minute of continued staring, he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“You’re not letting this go are you?” Irritation mars his face. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Green.” He doesn’t offer an explanation. 

The bright trees of the Glade come to mind and Newt’s work in the gardens. The city surrounding them is as far from green as you can get: nothing but black, brown, and rust red. 

“Mine’s blue.” 

“That’s nice.” His voice drips disinterest. 

She lets silence fill the space between them again. It’s safer that way: the more they talk the more Cranks will be able to seek them out.

Eventually, they stop their somewhat directionless search when they see a mattress lying in the street. It’s bulky and the springs are jagged, almost sharp looking. They almost passed it without notice, except for the sun glinting off the exposed metal frame. 

“We could barricade the lower levels of the building with these if there’s more,” Newt says after peering at it for a moment, face pinched. “The Right Arm used them for construction.” 

She glances at the nearby buildings: the area is residential. If they dig enough they’ll definitely find more materials. 

“We can salvage them today and come back in the morning. We won’t have time tonight.” 

Teresa nods. Newt’s right, there won’t be enough time between finding the materials and hauling them back to bring more than one load. Besides, the noise will be enough to draw more than a few Cranks to them. 

The work is silent and grueling. Together, they manage to pull about five mattresses from the rubble and prop them against the side of the building. Newt moves without complaint, digging the heels of his boots into the dust and yanking the corner of a mattress free. 

“Never knew mattresses would be this heavy.” She pauses for breath, wiping her brow. 

Newt doesn’t pause, hauling away a chunk of concrete. “I suppose there wasn’t much manual labor to be done at WCKD, huh?” 

She should just let the comment roll off her back, like another bead of sweat under the brutal sun, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sticks like the sand in her boots and blood beneath her nails. 

“You have no idea what WCKD was like.” Minho flashes before her eyes, broken and screaming.

Newt’s ready though, with just as much venom as her. “Don’t I? I did die there after all.” 

“Fuck off,” she snaps, turning back to the forgotten mattress at her feet.

“Got it,” Newt sneers, yanking the edge of a mattress free from the pile and wiping his hands off. He turns and starts walking, back in the direction they came from. 

“Where are you going?” she shouts after him. 

He looks back over his shoulder. “I’m fucking off.” 

She’s running after him before she even realizes she’s moving, boots digging into the dirt. Her hand closes around the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. Newt’s ready for her though, fist shooting out and forcing her to duck to avoid being punched in the jaw. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she says, jumping back to avoid him. 

His face pinches further, brow furrowing. “I’d rather be alone here than with you.” 

Whatever shreds of calm she’d managed to hang onto dissolve.   
“Fine,” she snaps, turning. 

They’d set their backpacks down next to the pile of rubble, the extra weight making it harder to move the material and climb through the debris. She grabs her back, slinging it over her shoulder as she passes by. 

“What are you doing?” Newt asks. 

She doesn’t look back, nails digging into her palm. “You said it yourself: we’re better off on our own. This was a stupid idea.” 

The light is fading overhead, sunset streaking the sky in bright vermillion and firey orange. She looks back at Newt to see him washed in red, light up like a beacon in the dying sunlight, surrounded by a day's wasted efforts. His brow is furrowed in anger, hands balled into fists. It's the same look he wore when facing her at the Right Arm: the sort of fury that's only kept on a leash by even greater loyalty. 

Even though WCKD's gone and the Last City left in rubble around them nothing's changed. They're still on opposite sides in his mind: the scientist and the subject. When Thomas had been there, he'd managed to keep them both at arm's length from one another, compatible only in distance. 

But that was over. And now Newt wasn't an ally: he was a liability. An unknown quantity. 

It was time to cut down on extraneous variables. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! so sorry about the massive delays with this chapter. university is hell and writing is hard. hopefully, you all enjoyed this! there will be more updates in the future, i swear! RtG isn't over and will be finished. as always, feel free to reach out on Tumblr @runthemaze with any questions or just to chat!!
> 
> p.s. i have a playlist of the RtG soundtrack if anyone is interested! feel free to sound off in the comments (also guys, thanks for all the lovely support this fic has gotten i swear i read every comment and they mean the world)! —M


End file.
